An Easter Between Worlds – Part II
I woke up before sunrise, which already told me the day wouldn’t be easy. The room was quiet, dim, the kind of silence that comes before something moves again. For a few seconds I forgot where I was, then the concrete walls and distant hum brought it back. Sumy. Our time. Not the warm hall, not the laughter, not the wine.
Aelena was already awake.
She stood near the window, still, watching the street like she could see through it rather than at it. I stretched, sat up, and rubbed my face. “You ever sleep?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” she said.
“Comforting.”
She turned slightly. “They are moving the children today.”
That woke me up properly. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
I stood, pulled on my jacket. “Then let’s not miss them.”
We didn’t go in loud. That was never her way.
Aelena didn’t track like we do. No phones, no signals, no maps. She walked, paused, tilted her head, moved again. Sometimes she touched a wall, or just stood still long enough to make me uncomfortable. And every time, we got closer.
“They passed here,” she said once, pointing to nothing I could see.
“Footprints?” I asked.
“Echo,” she replied.
I didn’t ask more.
We followed narrow streets, then outskirts, then something half-industrial, half-abandoned. The kind of place people use when they don’t want to be seen.
She stopped.
“They are inside.”
I nodded, instinctively lowering my voice. “How many?”
“Four. Armed.”
“Alright,” I said, checking corners out of habit. “Plan?”
She looked at me.
“That is the plan.”
The door was locked.
It didn’t stay that way.
She didn’t touch it. Just looked at it, and the metal latch… softened. Not melted, not broken. Just… gave up.
We went in.
Two men in the first room. Weapons ready, tension in their posture. They saw us.
They never got to react.
Aelena lifted her hand slightly, almost lazily, and the air shifted. I don’t know how else to describe it. Like pressure, but softer. Both men blinked once… and collapsed. No noise. No struggle. Just down.
I whistled quietly. “Efficient.”
She moved on.
Second room. One man, turning toward us, raising his weapon. It slid from his hands before he could aim. Not thrown. Not yanked. It just… wasn’t where it was supposed to be anymore. It clattered behind him.
He froze.
Aelena stepped forward, placed her fingers lightly against his temple.
He dropped.
No drama. No fight.
The last one tried to run.
Bad idea.
The corridor ahead of him… wasn’t where it had been. He stumbled, confused, took a wrong step, and walked straight into a wall that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago. He hit the ground, dazed.
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really don’t like loud solutions, do you?”
“No,” she said simply.
The kids were in the back room.
Scared, but unharmed. That mattered.
Aelena knelt down in front of them, her voice softer than I had ever heard it. She didn’t explain everything. She didn’t need to. She just told them they were safe now.
I handled the practical part. Contacts, a quick call, making sure there was someone in Sumy ready to receive them. Relatives, verified, worried, waiting.
We didn’t involve more people than necessary.
We moved fast.
Getting them out was… strange.
We didn’t take a car. Didn’t risk checkpoints or questions. Aelena looked around once, focused, and then the world folded just enough.
Not a full jump like mine. Something subtler.
We were suddenly somewhere else. Still Ukraine, still real—but not the same place. Closer. Each time she did it, she slowed a little more.
By the time we reached the building in Sumy, I could see it in her.
“You’re pushing it,” I said.
“I know.”
The reunion was quiet.
No big scene, no crowd. Just a small apartment, a door opening, two kids running into arms that had been waiting far too long.
I stayed in the hallway. It felt like the right place for me.
Aelena watched for a moment, then stepped back.
“That is enough,” she said.
“For them,” I replied. “Yeah.”
By evening, we were at the station.
The overnight train to Lviv via Kyiv stood ready, humming softly like it always does. Familiar. Almost comforting.
We got on.
For a while, we just sat in the compartment, the rhythm of the train doing its usual work. I glanced at her. She looked… different. Not weaker exactly, but quieter. There was a slight redness in her eyes, the way someone looks when a cold is just settling in.
“You’re sick,” I said.
“It happens,” she replied. “If I intervene too much.”
“Saving kids does that to you?”
“It is not the saving,” she said softly. “It is the altering.”
I nodded. That made sense in a way I didn’t want to unpack.
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yes. I will rest. Then continue my studies.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I’ve got Clovis tomorrow. And I promised myself some shopping and a cinema if nothing explodes.”
“That would be… wise.”
Kyiv came sooner than expected.
The train slowed, the lights outside shifting, the familiar station approaching. She stood before it fully stopped.
“This is where I leave.”
Of course it was.
We stepped out onto the platform together. Cold air, distant voices, that late-night station atmosphere that feels like the world is half-asleep.
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Then I stepped forward and hugged her.
She hesitated for half a second, then returned it. Warm, steady, real.
When we pulled back, she looked at me… and leaned in slightly.
I smiled, just a bit.
“No time for teleporting now,” I said. “But maybe soon.”
She held my gaze for a moment longer. “I remember the pond.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
She nodded once, then stepped back. And just like that, she was gone into the flow of people, quiet as ever.
I stood there for a few seconds, then turned and got back on the train.
Lviv was waiting.
And, for once, nothing seemed to be tearing apart.
Not yet.
— Marco
